


Coasting

by Argyle



Category: The Great Gatsby
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-02-29
Updated: 2004-02-29
Packaged: 2018-02-20 11:11:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2426621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An evening on the Sound.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coasting

The echoing din of the city, a pulse of warmth within the eye of the night, stretched languorously across the horizon. Fading light caught against the hazy July air, refracting the view of the distant shore, the sprawling shapes of the houses there appearing as jaunty sandcastles and wedding cakes. I drew on my cigarette, the smoke drifting forward dejectedly and then dispersing itself as though it had thought of something better to do, and I lightly kicked at the sand with the toe of my shoe. There seemed to be a definite weight to the dying breeze and I shifted my gaze across the waters, lingering presently on a lone gull silhouetted against the light of the bay, its wings moving with an idyllic temperance.

I heard a shuffle of footsteps behind me, the movement of grasses and dunes beneath a careful stride. "Evening, Gatsby," I said without turning.

He stood next to me and, out of the corner of my vision, I saw him nod. "The water looks very well tonight."

"Yes."

I felt him shift beside me, the blue hem of his jacket brushing steadily against the back of my hand. There was a movement across the Sound, a boat full of shining faces, laughter casually merging with the crooning of the gulls and the far hum of a gramophone. Gatsby was silent.

"I had thought to make it over to Westchester on Tuesday," I commented, trying to disguise the trembling resonance of the words. "Jordan is playing." I made a half-hearted motion with my hand, ashes tossing from the cigarette and catching in the air.

"Oh," he said at last. "That's all right."

Breathing against my cigarette and flicking it into the sand, I finally shifted my gaze from the waters to him. A smile crossed his lips. It lingered there, calmly coasting the edges of his mouth, though it had soon vanished the next moment as though he had thought better of it. There was something absurd about the scene, the dark folds of his pinstriped jacket and the rosy hue of the shirt beneath, the thin amusement that fell forth from the creases of his eyes, the strands of hair that presently fell across his brow, set free by the breeze.

I blinked, my gaze shooting back toward the grey pull of the waves. There were figures against the mouth of the water, silver and scarlet; walking and then running, they were lost into the night.

"It's changing, I think," he said suddenly, moving his hands quickly into his pockets.

I hesitated. "What is?"

"Oh." He seemed to be mulling over his words, a frown crossing his features, as though he hadn't expected me to answer. "The world."

"Yes, I think you're right."

There was a movement of the wind and a light across the bay flickered on, now shining green against the growing curve of shadows.

"Do you make it to the pictures often?"

"No, not often, I'm afraid," I said, trying to connect the two trains of thought in my mind.

Gatsby seemed to lean forward slightly, as though listening very intently to a far off whisper. He licked his lips, the smile returning. "We ought to go sometime, old sport."

"Sure, sure." I nodded, swallowing roughly as I felt his hand settle upon my shoulder.

My gaze dropped toward the dunes, their slopes seeming to dance in the encroaching light of the moon, a sliver in the dusk.

"Look here, I was thinking of taking my boat out onto the Sound tomorrow morning. Perhaps you'd like to join me?" He shifted his footing absently.

I didn't answer, instead allowing the confectionary quality of his voice to graze over me as the sweetness of the evening's breath. There was then a silence -- or perhaps some degree of indecision -- as the waves extended their hold of the shore. My heart beat wildly within my chest and I as raised my hand to it as though to muffle its sound, Gatsby had grasped onto it, his fingers cool against my own. Our gazes met and he squeezed my hand, pulling me close.

"Come," he said. "Would you like a drink?" His voice was soft. It seemed that the words would be lost entirely in the breeze were I not able to cling to them.

He led me over the dunes, over the dark fold of his lawn, over the glistening marble of the stairs, his hand still firm upon my own...

Morning light collected in my sight as the surging mist of the water caught against my lashes and I dashed a hand across my brow, my gaze falling upon Gatsby. I tasted salt upon my lips and, running the tip of my tongue over them, I smiled lazily. He moved against the cushions of his seat, the gentle rocking of the boat meeting his intent.

"Let's go to the pictures," he said, carefully returning the smile, that green light of the past evening still seeming to catch within his eyes.


End file.
